god's moving in your bloodstream
by possibilist
Summary: 'You're there the first time she walks again. But when you'll step on your first official Broadway stage, she won't be in the audience.' The second part of with your eyes alone, from Rachel's POV.


summary: 'You're there the first time she walks again. But when you'll step on your first official Broadway stage, she won't be in the audience.' The second part of with your eyes alone, from Rachel's POV.

an (1): so if you haven't, reading with your eyes alone would probably be helpful, lol. it's not necessary; this fic can probs stand alone and still make sense, but it will help you. anyway, comment and such. i love you all so much. x

an (2): references from freelance whales' _weathervanes_, and i mention the super fun yelle and super heartbreakingly beautiful regina spektor's "summer in the city" as well.]]

_..._

god's moving through your bloodstream (where the crossbeats aren't so slow)

.

_we could make a blanket of coats and breathe our souls into the neighbors' front lawn_

_(oh, please believe the ghost in me is doing what i can to find you out)_

...

one._ we're finding every day several ways that we could be friends_

.

You're nervous. Like, really, really nervous. As if you weren't unpopular enough already, as if you didn't get slushied all the time, as if you didn't cry yourself to sleep sometimes—quietly, though, because your dads could never hear you—now you've gotten yourself into a _mess_.

Because you've just texted Quinn. Quinn _freaking _Fabray. You'd gotten her number from Finn and, granted, you had texted him and Kurt and the rest of the people in Glee too, but sending _Do you guys want to get together for a movie night at my house this weekend? _to Quinn just seemed like the most daunting thing. In the entire world.

Because Quinn was, well, _Quinn_. She's snobby and mean and popular, but she's really, really smart—you have three classes with her, and she has this perfected disinterest the entire time, but when you look at her notes, they're immaculate—even though she doesn't want anyone to know it. And, she's _beautiful_.

So the first weekend she—and Santana and Brittany—join Glee, you decide to do something to show that you want to be her friend.

Because you do.

Finn texts back: _yah, as long as its ok wit quinn._

Kurt sends: _*sigh* why not?_

Santana tells you: _Not a fucking chance in hell, hobbit._

Brittany sends you a picture of a cat, then Santana sends you: _Brits is a no too, man hands._

Mercedes and Tina and Artie all agree (albeit a little reluctantly).

Puck doesn't respond, which is probably just as well.

And then your heart might thump out of your chest when _New Message: Quinn Fabray_ lights up on your screen.

Her text says: _As long as it's not a musical._

You grin and look through your DVD collection to find a movie that the kind of girl like Quinn would want to watch.

That Saturday night, you put on _Little Miss Sunshine_. It's the first time you hear Quinn laugh.

.

The first big fight you'll ever have is your junior year at NYADA, when Quinn can't visit on her scheduled weekend because of a meeting or something for _The Yale Review_.

Everything will blow out of proportion, and you'll make up within hours tearfully over Skype, but you'll start to acknowledge this deep-seeded fear in your chest that, no matter how much you love her, only seeing her for a few days every month will be _difficult_.

You'll sit alone in your dorm and stare at the bouquet of gardenias you'll have bought her that she'll never get, and you'll miss her laugh as you watch _Little Miss Sunshine_ in the dark.

...

two. _is she outisde-in or inside-out?_

.

You fight. Pretty much all the time.

But then she tells you things like, "You don't belong here."

And then she promises to stay. She promises to help you on your way, by giving up her dreams. For _yours._

And then she slaps you at Prom, and then she cries, and it's in that exact moment that you think you really understand her. When she says she's terrified, you know why.

You know what to tell her.

No one sees her like you do.

So you say, "You're a very pretty girl, Quinn. The prettiest girl I've ever met."

She looks at you like she's heard it a million times before. You're sure she has.

But then you say, firmly, "But you're a lot more than that."

When she turns away, it dawns on you that no one has ever told her that before. Your chest aches with the realization. So you wipe her tears and then you go back outside. She holds your hand almost all the way into the gym, and looks kind of sad when she decides to let go.

.

That February, when Quinn will visit almost exactly four years after the accident, she'll tell you she's been accepted into Iowa's MFA program. And then you'll break your own heart giving her pretty much the exact same speech she'd given you—more than a few times—and she'll leave, you'll sit in the hallway for two hours and fourteen minutes.

Kurt will come and kneel down on the floor, and he'll tuck you into his arms and you'll sob.

You'll rant about how she's never believed in herself as much as you had, and you'll rant about how goddamn talented she is, and you'll rant about how hard you wanted her to fight, to take you in her arms and just stay in New York.

Kurt will stay quiet, and you'll watch _Funny Girl _and eat about five gallons of vegan ice cream that night.

You won't take off her Yale t-shirt in the morning, and Kurt will just look at you sadly and say, "I know this is cliche, but if you're meant to be, you'll find each other again."

You'll nod and then you'll strip and put the shirt in your hamper.

In the shower, you'll think of Quinn's hands on yours the night before, and you'll think of her singing Lana Del Rey, and you'll think of _her_, and, instead of singing, you put your forehead against cool tile and just cry.

You won't sing again in the shower for almost a year.

...

three. _what a flammable heart i've been given (also feeling somewhat lonely, no one sees you)_

.

When you see her under the bleachers, with her thin stomach bare and her nose pierced and her hair pink and wild and short, you don't really know what to say.

The hardest part is getting over how _sexy _she looks, even though you think smoking is disgusting and you're not fond of tattoos.

But then her eyes are so unfathomably _hurt _that they literally take your breath away. You tell her, "I'm sad that you're so sad."

If she was anyone but Quinn Fabray, you're sure she'd by crying.

So you say, "Whenever you're ready," and as she takes a drag of her cigarette, you're certain she understands it's a promise, because she watches you walk away.

.

A week after you break up, you'll be running in Central Park, and your iPod will be on shuffle. "Summer in the City" by Regina Spektor will come on, and, before you know it, you'll be sitting on a bench and sobbing.

You will see her everywhere after that, in every woman with short blond hair and a dancer's frame.

They'll turn around every time, but you'll leave before they really know you. They'll watch you walk away, but it won't feel the same. You don't promise them anything.

...

four.

.

She thanks you. She applies to Yale. You are friends.

.

You won't go to her graduation.

...

five._ build me a star in your forehead (you were so misunderstood back then)_

.

She sings this amazing song. She's a gifted performer, even if she chooses not to acknowledge it. And then she gives a speech, and she looks at you the entire time.

_Looks _at you, like you know to look at her.

And, a few weeks later, at the bridal shop, her anger is verging on desperation. She's too scared to admit what you both know, and, for some reason, so are you, so you go through all the motions.

When she asks you if you were singing that song to Finn and only Finn a few days later, you really can't actually tell her _yes_.

When you hug, you breathe in her perfume—oranges and sandalwood—and her skin and her hair. You think of your future and all you can see in that moment is Quinn.

You ignore what this means for the millionth time, but you really don't want to let go.

.

In the middle of the night, when you're alone in bed, you'll look over to her empty side of the bed. You'll try to think of how successful your auditions have been lately, how many callbacks you've gotten, but you'll just see absence.

You'll miss her touch so much you can't sleep, so you'll squeeze your eyes shut and lace your fingers together, because God gave you two hands and they'll have to be good enough for now.

...

six. _our hearts only run so slowly on the local track_

.

You physically cannot bring yourself to walk down the aisle without her. Let alone, like, actually move in the direction of the room you're to be married in.

You need her to stop it. You need her to get there and do _something_, because you'd stopped her from doing lots of stupid shit before, and she can do the same for you.

And she's your best friend.

And then Santana's phone rings, and she answers, and then she starts crying, and it's much too clear why Quinn still hasn't arrived.

When Santana's dad comes and tells everyone in the waiting room that it's touch-and-go, you try to imagine the world without her, and you just _can't_. You realize you might be the last person that ever hugged her, and you can't breathe, and you look down and slip off your engagement ring.

Dr. Lopez talks a little bit more about her spine being compressed and damage to her lungs and a possible brain injury, and Santana's left hand—the one Brittany isn't clinging to—starts shaking, and you take it without thinking. She glares at you (tearily), but she just squeezes instead of yanking it away.

.

You'll find out from Santana that Quinn's going to London for the summer.

You'll read news reports from the BBC almost hourly, because there's this startling and immense fear that something will happen to her while she's in some faraway place and this time you won't be able to get there quickly enough.

But the two months will pass without incident, and you won't fall in love with anyone else, and when you meet Santana for dinner one night in Brooklyn, she'll tell you that Quinn's back in the States and that she's going to go to Brown for grad school.

Santana will say that Providence is exactly three hours and thirty-three minutes from New York, and she'll roll her eyes but offer a soft smile.

"I talked to her on the phone," she'll say. "She sounded okay."

"Okay?"

"She sounded sane. She sounded like Quinn." Santana will take your hand. "She sounded sad."

...

seven. _the curve in your spine, a question mark_

.

She wheels up to you one day before sixth period—which still causes such an immense pain in every inch of your body that you haven't quite figured out how to process it yet—and starts talking about your upcoming essay due in AP English 12.

She wheels around in little circles when she talks about writing, when she gets excited, and it's adorable, and, before you even know what you're saying, you ask, "Can I come to physical therapy with you?"

She stops moving entirely and glances up at you. She looks uncertain—and you've understood since the first time you saw her in the hospital that it hurts her for you to see her like this—but then she nods. "I'd like that, actually."

So you meet her there the next day after school, and you say hello to Judy again, then listen to Quinn's physical therapist carefully as she instructs you to help Quinn stretch.

Quinn's wearing black yoga pants and Nike trainers, and you see the faint outline of _abs _through the thin material of her t-shirt. Quinn is still remarkably flexible, and her legs are still toned. She closes her eyes in a tiny grimace when you push her leg just a little farther towards her chest, and you quickly ask, "Did that hurt?"

She whispers, "Yeah," but then says, "but it's actually a good thing. Keep going."

.

You'll call Judy that October, on her birthday. She'll talk to you happily and she'll talk to you like her daughter, and you'll remember how nervous Quinn was to come out that Christmas break her first year at Yale. You'll remember how wonderful Judy was, how she'd gotten to know you so well over those four years.

She'll ask, "Have you and Quinn—"

"No," you'll tell her. "We haven't."

She'll be quiet on the other end of the phone, but then she'll say, "She's teaching two undergraduate writing classes at Brown. Did you know that?"

"I didn't," you'll say. "But I'm sure she's a wonderful teacher."

Judy will agree, and then you'll talk about your current rehearsals and how you're trying to find a new apartment.

She'll thank you for calling.

You'll tell her that her card is in the mail. You'll send her a ticket to opening night.

...

eight.

.

You're there the first time she walks again.

.

When you'll step on your first official Broadway stage, she won't be in the audience.

...

nine. _and oh you shot a glance like i was doing okay (oh i am never on my way)_

.

You tell her that you've broken up with Finn a few weeks after graduation and she smiles. She tells you she's happy for you. She tells you she's nervous about going to Yale because she's walking now but not all that steadily, and she wants to start her _life _without any implications from her past.

You tentatively tuck a strand of soft hair behind her ear and lean in close to whisper, "Let people see in you what I've always seen."

She swallows and then—she's always just been that much more courageous—takes the final step and her lips meet yours.

You're dizzy when she steps back, but she tastes _incredible_, and everything in you—all of the discontent, the doubt, the manic, loud, nervous energy you've always had when you think about your future—calms.

She smiles this shy, uncertain smile and bites her lip. "I think it'd be kind of overwhelming if _everyone _saw me like that, Rach."

You roll your eyes but you laugh. "You're an idiot. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"_Never_," she whispers, and you kiss her again.

.

You'll find out in your daily twitter-stalking of Quinn that she's started dating a girl named Emma. Emma's picture next to her name will show that she's really pretty—she'll has short, curly brown hair that looks like something out of a 1950s film, and her eyes will be big and dark, and her smile will be lovely—and you'll find out that she's a second year med student at Brown.

You'll follow their tweets almost religiously. They'll seem happy; they'll make breakfast together one morning and Quinn will post a picture on Instagram of their crepes. They'll go to Boston together for an indie show they're both excited about.

When one of Quinn's short stories will get published _Harper's_, Emma will be the one to announce it.

You'll stay up all night staring at some _stupid _picture on Instagram of Quinn, with her arms wrapped around Emma from behind, pressing a kiss to her temple with a smile. Quinn looks beautiful. Quinn looks _happy._

You'll go out the next night and find a blond at some club who looks like Quinn. Her name will be Meredith and she'll seem nice enough, and you'll both be drunk, and you'll take her back to your apartment and you'll fuck.

You'll say Quinn's name, over and over again, but Meredith won't whisper E.E. Cummings into your ear as her lips graze your neck, and she won't have a long, thin scar down her spine, and she won't have one single line from Alfred, Lord Tennyson's "Ulysses"—_i am part of all i have met_—tattooed on her left ribs in small, neat type-writer font beneath skin healed from being ripped apart years before.

She won't be Quinn, and you won't fool yourself into asking her to stay the night.

...

ten. _please don't put your face into your hands, we could be friends_

.

The second time Quinn visits you at NYADA, she eats bacon from a less-than-credible restaurant—you advise her strongly against it, but she rolls her eyes—and then, predictably, less than two hours later, is hunched over the toilet in your dorm, resting her forehead against the porcelain as you rub her back.

"Don't you dare say _I told you so_," she says, her voice low and raspy, and you smile a little.

"I'm sorry you got food poisoning, Quinn, but that bacon was doomed from the beginning."

She groans and starts throwing up again, and you hold her hair back as best you can.

You help her back to your bed a few minutes later after she brushes her teeth, and she curls up, then pats the space next to her.

You climb under the covers and rub slow circles around her stomach, and she starts to fall asleep, her hair in disarray and her head tucked into your shoulder.

"I'm an awful girlfriend," she mumbles into your neck.

You shake your head and say, "You're a wonderful girlfriend. Things like this make me love you even more."

You stiffen when you realize what you've said, and hold your breath, but Quinn just sighs sleepily and says, "I love you, too."

.

Quinn and Emma will stop tweeting on December 10th. You'll look at the screen for three hours before you'll decide to call Santana.

She'll answer on the second ring and whisper, "Q's here, so shut up."

"But I haven't even—"

"Shhh," she'll hiss, and you'll wait for approximately fourteen seconds before she'll say, "Okay, I'm in the bathroom. I can talk now."

"Why is Quinn with you?"

"What do you think, Rachel?"

You won't be able to say it, because feeling happy at Quinn feeling sad will just be _wrong_.

So Santana'll sigh and say, "She and Emma broke up. Okay?"

"Okay," you'll say.

You won't press your luck and you won't ask why, but the next day, when Quinn will tweet a link to Regina Spektor's "Summer in the City" and write _This has been stuck in my head for months_, you won't be able to help the smile that spreads across your face.

It won't quell the ache in your chest at her palpable sadness, but it'll be a start.

You'll listen to the song on repeat all day.

...

eleven.

.

She cries after the first time you have sex. "I've just wanted that forever," she tells you.

.

That ache won't go away, even on the best days.

...

twelve. _don't fix my smile, life is long enough_

.

Quinn has to have back surgery again during the summer before your sophomore year to refine the rebuilding of her spine.

Before she goes into the OR, you try not to cry.

She says, "I love you so much."

You tell her, "I love you, too," and you pray for two hundred and seventy-two minutes until the surgeon comes into the waiting room and smiles. He announces that Quinn did very well, and he doesn't expect any complications whatsoever.

She's really groggy when you get to see her about an hour later, back in her room, but she beams at you and you take her hand with ease.

You spend the night and you spend the next few days watching her old noir films while she sleeps, and occasionally playing Scrabble, and then wheeling her around the hospital as she tells you story upon story.

It kind of freaks you out, to see her in a wheelchair again, even though it's just a precaution and she hobbles to the bathroom as _that _eyebrow arches when you (and Judy) suggest maybe it would be safer if she used the chair.

A week later, she's walking solidly again, without any problems, and the next month you're dancing together in her big kitchen to Yelle as you bake cupcakes.

You still thank your God and her God every night, though, because you've just learned. She smiles when you pray.

.

On the five year anniversary of the accident, you'll call her because you just _have _to. You won't have spoken for eleven months. She won't answer, and you'll leave a voicemail that's jumbled and sad and honest.

You'll tell her, "I don't want to need you. But I miss you. I've never stopped."

For the rest of the morning, as you go to a dance class and then to grab a few groceries, you'll refuse to look at any of the cars along the streets.

Santana will call you because she's in the city and you'll meet for lunch and she'll mostly be quiet.

But she'll ask, "God, do you remember how scared we were?"

And you'll say, "I've never really stopped feeling that way."

She'll say, "Neither have I."

No one will whisper the next words, that Quinn really had almost died. But they'll be loud anyway, because the image of Quinn's funeral has always just been a little too easy to imagine since that day.

You'll be wearing her Yale t-shirt, and Santana will pay without a word.

...

thirteen. _we beg rebirth to take us up (better lights pull you out of the ground)_

.

The first weekend you visit her at Yale your junior year, after you have sex for _hours_, she lays back against her sheets and you rest your head against her chest, trace the little letters inked along her ribs with a smile—she'd been a little drunk a few weeks ago and had gone without asking you first, and her guilty look over Skype when she'd shown you had made the whole thing perfect and wonderfully hilarious, because it's actually a really cool tattoo and she's _beautiful_—and she shivers.

"Rachel?"

"What?"

"I want to be with you forever," she says.

Your breath catches and then she looks down at you nervously, but you smile. "I want that, too."

You feel her ribs contract and then expand with a deep, relieved breath, and you think this is the most sure you've ever been about anything.

You press your ear to her sternum and listen for the strength of her heartbeat beneath bone. It's there, loud and gentle.

.

She'll show up at your apartment at 6:43 pm. She'll be wearing a pretty dress and her hair will be a little shorter than you remember—but still incredibly attractive—and she will be beautiful.

"Hi," she'll say.

You'll say, "Quinn," because that's the only thing your brain can manage.

"Yeah. Hi."

You'll almost laugh, but you'll just smile and say, "It's so good to see you."

She'll tell you, "You too."

You'll ask, "Do you want to come in?"

She will say, "Yes."

And then for hours, you'll talk. You'll fall asleep together, and it will be the best you'll have slept since you saw her last. You'll wake up together and go to breakfast together and remind her of that time she got food poisoning, and her laugh will be magnificent.

You'll ask seriously over coffee how she's feeling, how her back is, and she'll tell you, "It's a little sore, because it's winter and everything, but not that bad." She'll add, "All things considered."

You'll bite your bottom lip.

She'll take your hand and arch an eyebrow and say, "If you try to apologize one more time, I will kill you now. Witnesses and everything. Santana volunteered to help years ago."

So you won't apologize, and instead you won't let go of her hand. You'll keep your fingers locked with hers all the way back to your apartment, where she'll tell you that she's going to go to Columbia in a year to get a PhD in English.

And then you will kiss her, or she will kiss you, because anymore, you won't be clear on who jumps first.

But she'll laugh a little when you both pull back, and then you'll smile as she bites her bottom lip.

You'll lead her into your apartment and she'll whisper Pablo Neruda to you, and you'll fist your hands in her hair and you'll trace her scars and her tattoo.

She'll say your name like a prayer, and afterwards you'll both cry.

"Eleven months is such a long time," she'll say.

You'll laugh against her skin and agree.

She'll get up and make you peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the kitchen while she dances to Yelle, and then you'll move to the little couch and put on _Little Miss Sunshine_.

You'll be making up for lost time, and your heart will finally be able to rest a little, so you'll lean against her shoulder and feel the tickle of the ends of her hair, and you'll kiss her shoulder.

She'll laugh a little and then that afternoon, you'll surrender. You'll be young again, and you'll nap so deeply and perfectly that you won't even need to dream.

references. (from freelance whales' _weathervanes_ _._)

.

title. "broken horse"

quote. "broken horse"; "location"

one. "generator ^ first floor"

two. "hannah"

three. "location"

four. "channels"

five. "starring"

six. "kilojoules"

seven. "broken horse"

eight. "danse flat"

nine. "ghosting"

ten. "we could be friends"

eleven. "vessels"

twelve. "generator ^ second floor"

thirteen. "the great estates"


End file.
